by Alison Tyler
Soon, though, the pivoting of her hips has taken on an urgency that starts to distract her from her program—and from her resolve to be passive. She answers the petitioning of her hips with soft, yet indisputably deliberate, strokes to her pussy. Then, before she knows it, a lone finger is exploring the edge of her gusset and the tender, moistening flesh beyond.
As the next sitcom rolls, Glenda is thoroughly luxuriating under her sofa throw, unabashedly savoring the horniness she’d earlier shrugged aside. She spreads her legs wide to let her heated pussy radiate, displaying herself to the tight, complicit audience of cotton blanket. Then she slams her thighs closed again, to let her diamond-hard clit tingle where she squeezes herself together. She repeats these maneuvers, over and over, until she’s ready to burn straight down through the sofa.
Long before her last television program concludes, Glenda finds herself parading around her living room, her fingers frantically busy inside her underwear. She diddles herself over to the table, then back toward an armchair. She returns to the sofa and pauses there, putting one leg up on the cushions to finger herself deeper.
She ruts herself against the cheeky corner of another couch—then briskly moves away in a lewd waddle, her palm cupped over her clit, rubbing hard. The TV audio babbles irrelevantly under her moans.
She can’t make up her mind where to have her climax, and so she simply wanders, an itinerant living-room masturbator, until the inevitable overtakes her in the middle of the floor.
There she sinks into a knee bend and howls to the ceiling, as a hot wave of undiluted release boils through her frame. Her lifted fingers stretch her pussy open like raw daybreak and twist her clit into fire.
STOPOVER
A. D. R. Forte
He listens while I explain. I’m a road warrior. One of that special breed. Two, three hundred days a year living on restaurant fare; flying double, triple platinum. An existence so bizarre that even in so-called downtime, I have to feel the asphalt under my tires, miles flying by as I go.
Go, and go, and go. Different places, different faces, another night somewhere else I don’t belong. Some hotel room echoing with the ghosts of ten thousand strangers, picking up my echoes for a night or three or five until I’m gone again.
Always on the road for money and for love. It’s why I’m here now: crappy diner with fluorescent lighting and blue plastic booths, the best this town has to offer.
Any port in a storm though, and boy is it a storm out there. Enough to run even me off the road, mangle my tire against broken debris sloshing along the asphalt. Fate telling me to stop so that he could find me. With his pretty brown eyes and his blue-checkered shirt, coming out of the dark like a knight in a shining tow truck.
Not that I’m looking for a knight to rescue me. Not at all. I’m out there looking for adventure, for freedom, for the next big thing. Or maybe I’m looking for danger.
Danger. The kind you can’t find tied down safely where people know your face. The kind that happens in hotel rooms behind paper-thin walls, sound bleeding through all through the wee hours of the night when decent people are asleep.
Not that I’d ever dare ask anyway, even in those places where the girls and boys come cheap and nobody checks ID. Where if you’ve got American green, anything’s for sale. How does that song go? It makes a hard man humble? But not for me.
I never rock the boat, never tempt fate. I just keep hoping somehow…somewhere…
Why am I thinking it would be him anyway? Just because his eyes are the softest shade of brown and he towed my car for free. Called up his mechanic buddy and made him promise to fix the piece of crap by noon, offered to drop me off at a motel. Expecting nothing in return: money or otherwise. Even though by now I’ve seen his gaze stray more than once. Not obviously, not so I’d be offended. Still a Southern gentleman, even in jeans and flannel.
A gentleman isn’t what I need.
But a stranger is.
And he nods like he understands, like he gets it, a knowing something in that gaze. But he can’t possibly. Can he?
Because I barely understand it myself.
I slide the scratched plastic key through the lock, surprised this so-called motel even has something so modern.
“Best you’re gonna get ’round here,” he said when he dropped me off at the lobby, apology in his voice. As if he wanted it to be something better. But I smiled and told him it was just fine.
Now I open the door, go inside, wedge a shoe between door and frame. And my heart beats much too fast.
I turn on the bedside lamp, take in patches of worn carpet, scuffs and scratches all over the corner desk, the coarse blanket on the bed, its off-olive shade hiding age and use. I drop my bag in a corner and my other shoe, and the crumpled bill from the diner falls out of my purse while I listen to the air conditioner hum like a factory and I think…I think this place is perfect.
I hear him come in. I don’t turn around.
He pulls my arms behind me and pushes me to the bed. Ties them with something rough, could be rope, but I’m too busy breathing. Too busy panicking. Am I sure? Really sure?
I don’t know, but I don’t give myself a choice. And I’ve asked him not to give me one either.
So afraid he’ll do what I’ve asked.
More afraid that he won’t.
I lie on my stomach, hands bound, nose full of the stale smell of the blanket, and feel him lift my skirt. His hands grip my thighs, push them apart, and through my panties his finger strokes my crotch. I hear him breathing hard.
Slowly, he pulls the panties down, stuffs them in my mouth. I gag at the cloth in the back of my throat, something instinctive telling me it shouldn’t be there, and I feel him hesitate. But I shake my head.
No. Go on. Let’s do this now, before I start thinking. Before I lose my nerve.
He makes a little noise as if he doesn’t quite believe this, before he flips me over. If only he knew, I don’t believe it either. Why am I here? Why am I doing this?
But I don’t have answers. All I know is that it has to be here, with him, in this small-town, godforsaken motel room or else it won’t ever be. And I want, I want it so badly.
Brown eyes alight with pleasure as he unbuttons my shirt and unhooks my bra. Squeezing creamy flesh between thick, strong fingers, nails still stained with car grease. Bared teeth on my nipple, pulling at the flesh until I moan. Flicking the dusky red flesh with his tongue, his finger. While I pant and stare at what he does. Feel my muscles clench, thighs wet with sweat and need.
Yes, I do want this. In the very worst way.
He takes my skirt off and spreads my legs wide.
“Oh, babe.” As he touches me. One leg between mine, leaning over me, his denim rough against my naked skin. Fingers rubbing my clit and the folds of my slit. Now gently, now rough. Never letting me get a grip on the sensation to where I can handle it and master it. Keeping me helpless.
Faster and faster. He won’t let me close my legs; won’t let me twist away. I’m flung open and at the mercy of lust. At the mercy of him as he watches my crotch.
As he jiggles his fingers on my touch-hungry clit.
As my breath comes shorter and my heartbeat races madly out of time.
As I feel the heat across my chest.
I know what comes next and I can’t stop it to save my modesty. To save my pride…
Oh, but he smiles when he sees me come.
Panting and writhing and wordlessly begging for more. Burning up with shame and pleasure and trembling all over. Every helpless twitch of my muscles that I can’t hide.
No one’s ever watched me like that before.
I see him unbutton his jeans. God, I’m not ready—but he is, and I want him.
He lies over me, smelling of cars and rain and coffee and sweat. Grips my hips hard and drives into me, grunting when I arch and grind against his cock. Yanks the panties from my mouth to kiss me.
Tongues twisting wet all over each other. Lips bruising ag
ainst teeth.
He lifts my legs up in the air and flesh slaps against flesh. Dirty rhythm. I scream as loud as I can, hoping there’s somebody to hear. To know I’m being fucked like this, to know I’m loving it.
And to envy me.
“I’ll pick you up when the car’s ready,” he says behind me, loosening my bonds.
“Don’t,” I whisper through dry lips.
He hesitates.
“Please.”
He drops my hands, still trapped by rough strands of rope, leaving me to free myself finally once he’s gone. He kisses my shoulder, puts his face into my hair for a moment, breathing me in before he leaves and walks out of my life for good. Because once I check out, this whole night is history.
At least, I think so.
I lie still, and the door clicks closed. He’s gone and here I am alone. Used and so tired, cum still sticky on my ass and crotch. I crawl under the rumpled blanket to sheets smelling of cheap detergent, ignore the voice that tells me to shower.
In the morning I’ll wash it off.
Scrubbed clean and decent again, I’ll pack up and be on my way. Clumsily, I turn off the lamp and remember I forgot to tell him “Thank you.”
Blind, in the dark, I wriggle and twist my hands until the rope slips off my wrists, leaving behind the memory of knots and fear and sex. I never leave loose ends hanging, never move on without closing the deal. Or minding my manners.
I toss and turn and feel his cock again. His tongue in my mouth. His hands on my flesh.
This place is cheap, free coffee and bagels, good place to stop for a night.
So I suppose I might be back.
Just passing through.
THE POINT OF LEAST RESISTANCE
Saskia Walker
Joe paces the floor, and every step illustrates one thing—he’s in control. I, on the other hand, am not. But I can’t let him know that. Not yet.
Instead I look at my lover’s broad back as he walks away from me, hating the distance it puts between us. What I want is his body against mine, hard, possessive and unrelenting.
The way he looks, so easy in himself, so strong, leaves me awestruck. It always does. His ripped T-shirt is stretched taut over his shoulder blades. The belt on his jeans emphasizes how low they are hanging on his narrow hips—low enough that one finger latched over the belt could ease those jeans down if I wanted to, and I was able. My body thrums with expectation at the very thought of it, but my hands are tied and strung up above my head, leaving me unable to pursue the suggestion that is getting me so hot.
Joe glances back then looks me up and down. I feel more than naked, I feel raw under his scrutiny. My nipples sting as much from his stare as from the pegs that nip them. Eventually, he comments. “You wanted this.”
The accusation burns.
I squirm, shifting my weight from foot to foot, my fingers meshing to stop me from working against the rope wrapped around my wrists. The movement makes my clit pound, a maddening sensation, especially because my clit is currently contained by a peg that holds my pussy lips closed at their apex. Sweat breaks out on my skin. I’m close to coming as it is and Joe has barely touched me.
“Yes, I did…want this.” Even though it’s hard for me to endure it when he owns me this way—when I resent the need to surrender—we are at our most intense this way, closer than ever.
He lifts his brows. “So, why the hesitation…the uncertainty?”
He was pressing me to say more than I could right then. Besides, he knew why.
I glare at him, furious, challenging him back in turn. I want him to break my resistance but I can’t say it aloud, and Joe knows that.
His nonchalance is unbearably arousing. To the casual onlooker it might suggest callous disregard. It was anything but that. Joe knows me inside out, better than I do, and he knows this easy-handed domination of his pushes me along until I’m right at the edge—desperate and ready to beg for him to use me.
“You’re a strong woman—”
“I am.”
He smiles when I interrupt him. It’s a dark smile, echoing his power.
“But you’re…” He steps closer and glances up, looking pointedly at my tied wrists. “You’re a bit tied up and helpless right now, aren’t you?”
I hang my head, acknowledging defeat. My heart is pounding, expectation and longing making me crazy.
That’s when he moves in.
One finger under my chin makes me his.
“What do you need?”
Arousal dampens my inner thighs, the pulse at my center pounding demandingly. Humiliation swamps me but there’s no going back, not now. “I need you to… handle me. To take control of me.”
“And then?”
My head drops again. “To fill me.”
My voice is scarcely above a murmur, but he hears me.
“You look particularly beautiful,” he comments, one hand moving to the peg on my pussy, “when you beg.” He releases the peg.
The pain only increases in the moment of sudden release, leaving me gasping for air. It’s dizzying, bound up with pleasure as that pain is.
I hear the sound of his zipper. It makes me wilder still, desperate for his hardness inside me. “Please, Joe.”
He unpegs one nipple then the other, casting the pegs aside.
“Oh, fuck.” Sensation burns in the peaked flesh as I try to adjust. I’m shaking from arousal and have to grip the rope overhead tighter still to stop myself from buckling.
Lifting me around the hips, he wraps my legs around his waist, encouraging me to lock myself there. I swing into position and my pussy splays against the bough of his erection. He rubs it there, bringing me to my first climax with his cock hard against my clit.
Then, he’s inside.
“Crazy girl,” he comments, thrusting deeply in and out, fucking me with determination. “Was it so hard to beg?”
I toss my hair back, high on the rush. “Yes, and you damn well know that!”
He grins then shifts and starts moving me back and forth on his cock, holding me easily with his hands under my buttocks, forcing me to give over all control to him. “There’s nothing quite like seeing my proud woman brought to her knees and begging for what only I can give her.”
How can I not love that? My legs lock tighter around his hips and I squeeze him hard with my inner muscles, elated when he groans in response.
“Careful now,” he warns, “or I’ll have to find another way to restrain you.”
I lean closer and kiss his mouth, hungrily, showing him I want that, I want it all. I moan when his cock swells inside me, inhaling sharply as I feel his orgasm build. His cock arches against the sensitive front wall of my sex. I clamp on him, milking him off, as I come.
He staggers slightly in the aftermath, but still holds me safe.
“One day we’ll reach the point of least resistance,” he comments, later, as he unties my wrists and carries me to the bed, “but I hope it’s not too soon, I do love it when you put up a struggle.”
As soon as he lowers me to the bed I swipe at him, slapping him on the arse, hard. “Cheeky bastard.”
Joe pounces, of course, but he doesn’t chastise me for my reaction. Instead he stares down at me with affection in his eyes then kisses me. Because he knows me so well, and I know he’s everything I want.
MISDIRECTION
Victoria Janssen
Damn it, we’ve got to get out of this somehow,” Mil said, pacing the sealed white chamber. “And no, I do not have any handy explosives tucked in my pocket.” To his right, a port twice the size of his head displayed the alien planet below. The wrong alien planet. His hyperspace navigation had turned out to be completely inadequate to their needs.
Lenora lounged against the opposite bulkhead, staring up at what was, despite its bizarre design, clearly a monitor: bulbous orange pods followed their every move and vibrated with each word they spoke. She said, “You might as well sit down. There’s no hurry now.”
&
nbsp; He snarled. “If you recall, they’ve got our ship. The only thing we possess. The only way we have to stay ahead of our former employers.”
“These aliens haven’t hurt us.”
Yet, Mil thought.
As if she’d heard his thought, Lenora made a face at him and said, “There is a way out. Demonstrate the human mating ritual, and they let us go.”
Mil threw himself into the only available chair, which was pulpy and green, and fumed.
Lenora sauntered over to him.
Mil eyed her, suspicious. “They aren’t controlling your mind, are they?”
“No,” Lenora snapped. He didn’t care if he had annoyed her; it was a perfectly reasonable question, under the circumstances. She sat on the lumpy arm of the chair and traced the rim of his ear with her fingertip. He batted her hand away. She tangled her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, tugging gently. She had nice hands. Skilled. Also soft. She—
“Stop it,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re even considering giving in to them.”
“Can you think of a better way to make them let us go?”
“Several ways. But I still don’t have any handy explosives in my pockets, so…”
She grinned, trailing her finger down his throat. He felt his pulse thump against her warm fingertip.
He vaulted out of the not-chair. “They’re watching us.”
“You do want to get out of here?” She rocked forward on her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t at all the carnal assault he’d expected. When she pulled back, he sighed. “But—” His words were cut off when she kissed him again, warm and sweet.
She leaned forward until the tip of her nose bumped his. “Yes?”
He couldn’t see anything but her brown eyes. “There must be another option.”
“Must there?” She lunged.
“Lenora! Stop it!”